


Comfort and Needles

by Anarchy-Schmanarchy (Murder_Schmurder)



Series: Ink like tracks in your skin [1]
Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, DreamSMP
Genre: Boreal Boys, Gen, Homemade Tattoos, Needles, Philza introspection, Philza-centric, Tattoo AU, bc THIS FANDOM NEEDS IT, doesn't even gotta be AU, homemade piercings, just canon but with fun twists, piercing AU, stick n poke tattoos, that is UNRELATED to fatherhood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-13 10:15:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29524887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Murder_Schmurder/pseuds/Anarchy-Schmanarchy
Summary: When Philza steps through the door to the cabin and finds Techno bleeding with a needle in his hand over the kitchen counter, he only sighs.“Another one?” He asks, kicking the snow off his boots and shaking out his wings. Techno only grunts, concentration locked on the small mirror balanced precariously on a shelf before he steps back slightly.“‘Nother in the ear. Left.”-----------------The physical representation of a life lived, seen in a quiet evening in the tundra.
Relationships: Ranboo & Technoblade, Ranboo & Technoblade & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Technoblade & Philza
Series: Ink like tracks in your skin [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2169045
Comments: 7
Kudos: 288





	Comfort and Needles

**Author's Note:**

> Zablr Discord my beloved 
> 
> Philza needs more love i tell you and i am going to fill this tag my damn self

When Philza steps through the door to the cabin and finds Techno bleeding with a needle in his hand over the kitchen counter, he only sighs.

  
“Another one?” He asks, kicking the snow off his boots and shaking out his wings. Techno only grunts, concentration locked on the small mirror balanced precariously on a shelf before he steps back slightly.

“‘Nother in the ear. Left.” He gestures to where the needle is still sticking through cartilage. Philza hums in agreement and busies himself wriggling his way out of all his winter gear. Once he’s done, Techno is already washing the blood off with care, a new, shiny ruby dangling in a delicate golden setting from the floppy part of the ear. 

“Looks good,” Philza says, and Techno just snorts. Philza steps into the kitchen, and for a few minutes they move around each other as Philza puts together a quick dinner while Techno disinfects his tools. 

“Today went okay?” Techno says, belatedly, sitting down across from him. Philza smiles. Techno usually remembers to be polite, sooner or later.

“It did. Found the new inks I was needing. Oh, and some of those candied apples you like,” he adds, digging into his pack and throwing the small paper bag Techno’s way. He grunts, his ears doing that pleased little swivel that makes Philza smile. He picks out the new ink bottles and lines them up as well. He’s been considering branching out into some colored variants, but finding good colored ink on the SMP is difficult: He’d found a strong red that reminded him of Techno, and a blue so dark it was almost black, but that was about it. His regular black in was in stock, luckily, the bottle shining under the firelight. 

“Planning something big?” Techno asks, and Philza shrugs.

“Not really. Just been wanting to touch up on some old stuff.”

Techno snorts.

“Never understood how you can stand sitting still for that long.” 

“You’ve never sat still in your life,” Philza shoots back, teasing. Techno huffs - and stands, because Philza is always right. 

“I’m heading to bed. You have fun poking your skin.”

“I will!” Philza says cheerily, and Techno finally lets out a huff of laughter before disappearing up the ladder.

The quiet settles as Philza finishes his tea, toying with the inks. Finally, he sets the cup in the kitchen and washes off his arms thoroughly. After that, he returns to open his bag again, pulling out his needle kit. 

There is a sort of meditative feeling to the whole thing: Picking out a needle and disinfecting it requires precise concentration. Disinfecting his arm takes only one quick swipe. He cranes his neck, checking over the designs.

He spots some of his older ones: The simple outline of a dragon swooping down towards his elbow, two wonky smiley faces he’d affectionately named He and She.

There’s his first scar tattoo, as well: cutting right into the dragon, a reminder of a battle back in the empire. He’d added little embellishments, turning the straight white line into a trident embedded into the stomach of the dragon. 

It has faded, slightly, maybe in the strong arctic sun when he works short-sleeved with the turtles. Carefully, he picks up his chosen needle and dips it into the black inkwell before pricking it into the skin with steady fingers.

It’s always like waking up, the first poke. A reminder of his body, where it stands, how it shifts. Still painful, of course, and he hisses just slightly as he pokes once more, refilling the needle before going back. 

The pinch of pain soon settles into a lingering burn as he reinforces the outline of the trident, adding a few stars of magic around it on a whim. He carefully opens the red ink before grabbing a new needle and disinfecting it. He dips it in, watches the ink fill with blood-red ink, and presses it into the line where the trident meets the dragon. 

The color looks almost unnatural in his skin when he carefully wipes off the excess. Unnatural, but not bad - he continues to enhance it, adding little flecks of blood around it. 

Dragon blood is the reddest he’s ever seen, he remembers. 

Once he’s happy with that, he picks up the black ink needle again, shifting further down the arm to add an outline of dragon’s breath from the dragon’s mouth - he’s going to try and mix purple, once he’s more awake, so he doesn’t do very much. Just the barest outline of smoke, which he thinks will look good with some purple shades added.

He enjoys fiddling with it. He’s never been a vain man, and the wobbly lines and wonky smileys just feel more like history than failures: Parts of the story the marks on his body tells. It’s certainly some of the happier ones: good for days like today, when things have been well and his troubles far away, the sun bright and beautiful, the people kind, the prices fair. He adds another line of smoke out the dragon’s nostrils. 

He’s there. His body is there. Techno is upstairs, probably still reading. His thoughts feel mellow like syrup, slow and sweet. 

He stretches and puts the needle down, afterwards. He doesn’t know how long it’s been, exactly, but probably about an hour. The new tattoos glimmer with fresh ink even as he carefully pats them dry, applying the cool film and wrapping it loosely to protect from his turning in the night. 

Capping the ink, he cleans up his workstation methodically. Getting ready for bed in the arctic involves putting on more clothes than you take off, and he chooses a soft, long-sleeved affair to protect the new lines further. Techno’s breathing is soft and even when he passes by the ladder up to his room - not asleep, but calm. 

Things are good, he thinks as he pulls the blankets into a vague nest-shape in front of the fireplace. Someday soon he’ll figure out how to make a proper nest in Techno’s tiny cabin, but it is not this day. Tonight, he just settles in front of the dying embers and breathes out slowly, drifting off to the distant sound of turning pages and thoughts about a snowstorm in blue and black across his skin.

Hmm. Maybe that’s for the next project. 


End file.
